Fear
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Bruce's feelings towards Tim when the boy is the victim of a stabbing whilst on patrol. Bruce's POV
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I am a fan of all Robins. Tim Drake ranks as my third ****favourite**** after Dick and Jason. For some reason, I find him very difficult to write such is the complexity of his character. What follows is a short story of Bruce's feelings towards Tim after the boy is stabbed whilst on patrol. Enjoy.**

**Fear**

What happened tonight was not the boy's fault. It was mine. I should have insisted he wear the stab-proof variant of his costume or at least Kevlar plating. I will not easily forget the moment it all started in motion. My right hand delivered an uppercut to the gang banger on my left and I turned my head to confront the opponent to my immediate rear. As I blocked his attempted knife-attack, I heard it; the sound of something sharp puncturing something wet with the faintest of squelches to acknowledge contact. The accompanying gasp of surprise, the sort usually only heard when a man is unexpectedly winded, only confirmed my fears. Despite accelerating my efforts, I arrived to a scene already stained with blood. Robin, my partner, was lying listlessly at a gang banger's feet. A pool of fresh blood, approximately three inches in both width and length, encompassed the boy's lower abdomen. He had instinctively tried to stem the blood flow by pressurizing the wound with his hand to no avail. I wasted no time.

The armed thug was unconscious less than a second later. I was upon the boy, administering life-saving first-aid, instantly after. Robin could not speak, but I did not hesitate to move him. I alerted Alfred, instructed him to prepare the medical bay for immediate surgery, and radioed in for the jet. I did not have time to drive him back through the city. The auto-pilot function of the jet proved invaluable during evacuation from the scene. I was able to stabilize the boy's condition using quick-clot powder and morphine. It was still unclear at that stage whether or not the blade had punctured any vital organs, but, given the length of the blade and the angle at which it was thrust - downward - I was optimistic it had not done that kind of damage; the boy would have bled out on route if that were the case.

Alfred's assessment of the boy's injury was a relief to myself. The old man deemed it far less catastrophic than the blood pool had suggested. The actual wound was only two inches deep and had struck muscle, but nothing more. He removed trace amounts of steel from the wound and sutured it shut. The boy is now in his room, hooked up to a variety of monitors and drip-feeds, but recovering well. I have been at his bedside for almost six hours. He is heavily sedated, but I do not wish to leave him alone; someone should be here when he regains consciousness. Alfred had volunteered to do a duty, but I made my intentions clear; I am NOT moving until he wakes up, no matter what.

After another hour of silent waiting, the boy does regain consciousness. He is still drowsy from both morphine and anesthetic, but is aware of both my presence and who I am with remarkable quickness. Despite the darkness and his condition, he speaks to me without fear.

"You saved my ass, huh?"

I walk forward until I am certain he is able to see my face. "How do you feel, Tim?"

"I can't move my body."

"You're still weak from the surgery. It will pass in a day or so."

"What did I need?"

"Suturing mostly. Fortunately your blood loss was not severe enough to warrant a blood transfusion. Alfred's prognosis is six to eight weeks."

The boy will not require such an extensive rehabilitation period. Given his true stamina and fitness levels, he will most probably be fully-healed in less than four weeks. It is obvious the boy needs rest at this moment and I tell him as much.

"Would you think I was a girl if I asked you to stay here until I fall asleep?"

My response to his request is to place a hand on his forehead and gently stroke his hair with my thumb. "Not in the slightest."

The relationship Tim and I have goes beyond a professional partnership. It is as deep and meaningful as my relationship to Dick; I love this child. It is these very affections and feelings for the boy that serve to compound my guilt over what transpired. Every time I look at Tim, I remember Jason. I remember the lifeless eyes and cold body as I carried him from the wreckage. I remember how powerless I felt, how totally destroyed my crusade seemed. I swore after Jason, after looking in that boy's dead eyes and finding my own staring back, that I would not allow such carelessness again. Tonight, this new boy could also have been carried from the wreckage of my own creation. He could have been another corpse to bury, another nail in my own coffin. Had anything happened, the world might be burying me at this moment, driven to suicide by the sheer horror of it all. I cannot control myself at this moment.

I cradle Tim awkwardly in my arms, just barely raising his shoulders from the bed to accomplish the feat. I am fortunate the boy is too groggy to fully comprehend the significance of such a gesture; I do not wish to scare him too much by exposing my humanity. "I'm not gonna die, am I?" Tim asks already half-asleep as I continue to hold him. I shake my head.

"No. I just…I need to hold you. Just for a moment." I sound very much like I feel, stunned by my frailty when it comes to my children. I would be far stronger without them, far less susceptible to error and human weakness. But I could not continue to exist without their presence. The weight I carry on my shoulders is only lightened with their help. I used to be able to bear such a burden on my own, but it was only because I had to. They now carry it with me and, as selfish as it may seem, I am glad for it. I am still holding Tim against my chest. He is soft, warm and most importantly of all, alive in my arms. I hear him breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine and am thankful for my luck. He could be dead. I could be alone. This could be the end of me. Worst of all, I could be afraid. Afraid of the darkness, afraid of the dead and their silent, unending accusations. I could be consumed by my failings as Batman and a human being. I am unable to release Tim. I cannot bring myself to let him go.

"You can stay if you want, Bruce." The boy tells me languidly, "I don't mind." I want to stay with him, desperately want to, but I cannot. I slowly release him and stand back up. My hand is back on his forehead. My emotions are powerful indeed. They do not control me entirely though. Although I do not need to say it out loud, I need to hear myself say it to allow me to leave. Tim is asleep, overcome by his body's need for prolonged rest, but I still offer him a verbal reply.

"No. I have work to do."

The conviction in my voice is enough to fool me into believing it. The boy is safe. I cannot speed his recovery by holding him all night. I must focus on the investigation. I must leave him to rest. I exit the room only to find Alfred in the hallway. The old man offers me an expression that informs me he was witness to my behaviour just now. His hand is on my shoulder. He sighs and squeezes gently.

"The investigation can wait, Sir. The blood at the scene can wait to be destroyed. I have taken care of the CCTV footage. I have told Commissioner Gordon the lad is safe. You are free of obligation at this moment. You may allow your feelings some breathing space, just for tonight."

I do not argue. I do not protest. Alfred is right. What I want is not important in the grand scheme of things, but it is important to me. I do not need to be with Tim, but I want to be. I nod in agreement. "Thank you, Alfred." My voice is strained. It takes another person to make me submit to my own desires instead of obeying my logic. I am glad I have the old man to keep me human as well as the boy. I daresay I would no longer be capable of love if left to my own devices. Alfred nods.

"Goodnight, Master Bruce."

He leaves without saying another word and I re-enter Tim's room in the same manner. I lie on the bed beside him for a few minutes before embracing him again. I hear him chuckle and know this is also what he wants too. What he murmurs is incoherent to most people, but his words are clear to me.

"I knew you'd come back."


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday**

It has just passed midnight in the city. Today is Tuesday. My presence is required at a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in exactly ten hours. At present, I am patrolling the Bowery district of Gotham. Although the streets are quiet, I sense the city is restless. Something about the feel of this place, the way in which Gotham's architecture seems to pause for breath, tells me there is trouble approaching. There are many potential sources for this trouble: a power struggle for cocaine-trafficking rights in The Narrows, a crack-down on prostitution and racketeering operations in Park Row or new allegations of corruption on city government officials. They could all grow beyond localized control and spread. To that end, I monitor these particular situations with a closer interest than usual. Only at three a.m. do I finally concede and return home.

It is now four a.m. I am in the cave running diagnostics on all current espionage and surveillance equipment in use around the city. I have replaced all weapons, ancillaries and my suit in the armoury. All current feeds to the central computer are fully-operational. I enter a sequence on the keyboard to loop them all in continuous record and then retire for the morning. On my way to my bedroom, I stop at the boy's door. He is still recovering from knife injuries sustained almost four days ago. Alfred has assured me Tim is making excellent progress in his recovery, keeping me regularly updated throughout the working day. The boy is yet to leave his room. I want to go in and see his condition for myself, but think it too invasive, especially at such an hour. I walk on.

I awake at eight-thirty a.m. To be at Wayne Tower in time to prepare for the meeting, I must depart from here by nine-twenty-five. I immediately get up and proceed to the bathroom. It is already in use; evidently, the boy is feeling better. It is of no consequence. I merely dress further down the corridor and use one of the other bathrooms. Whilst I shower, I note that the other bathroom's decor is more inviting, which may account for its popularity with the members of this household. As I head back to my room, I make a mental note to call interior decorators. By the time I have dressed in one of my pinstripe suits, a pattern I privately hate, it is eight-fifty-five a.m.

Downstairs, Alfred has already prepared and served my usual breakfast, eggs Benedict, black coffee and a protein bar.

"Good morning, Master Bruce." The old man says as I sit down at the table.

"Good morning, Alfred." I respond, taking control of the newspaper he is offering me, "Thank you."

"Would you care for anything else, Sir?"

"No thank you, Alfred."

"Very good, Sir. The car will depart in twenty minutes time." Alfred bows with typically humble courtesy and vacates the room.

It is nine-twenty a.m. I am about to depart for work. I grab my attaché case from the hallway and exit via the front door. Outside, the old man is waiting with the Rolls-Royce. I can see it has been newly waxed. He has done a remarkable job...as usual. During the journey, I take the opportunity to inquire about Tim.

"When will he be properly up and about again, Alfred?" I pose this question without looking at him; I am presently testing my mental alertness with the paper's crossword and Sudoku puzzles. I have skipped the intermediate difficulties and proceeded straight to its most difficult offerings.

"Master Tim will be able to leave the house for normal activities in a few more days. As for more extra-curricular offerings, I would caution another week; his stitches may yet tear under strain."

"I see." I have completed all puzzles and am certain of their correctness. My timing is somewhat fortuitous; we have just arrived outside Wayne Tower.

"Please ask him to check the recordings from earlier this morning and archive them, if he is able. If not, could you attend to the matter?" I inquire when about to leave the car. I see the old man incline his head in the rear-view mirror. "Thank you, Alfred." I enter the building.

It is eleven-thirty a.m. The meeting has concluded. I am now discussing the meeting's key points with Lucius Fox over an early lunch. For some strange reason, the board was overly suspicious with regards to the company's charitable donations. They brought in various facts and figures from the accounting department as well as statistical analysis from its relevant department. Both Lucius and I assured them that the charitable donations taken from the profits only accounted for an insubstantial loss to Wayne Enterprises' net gain. They suggested only recent fall in stock market share value was down to being seen as 'weak' by buyers. Due to their grievances being so absurdly exaggerated, I decided to dismiss the meeting on the lack of a cogent argument. Certain members were not happy with the decision.

"Could this sudden dissention in the ranks be a result of the pressure from Tyne Corp? They have been running us pretty close in the last two fiscal quarters." I suggest, taking a bite of my grilled chicken. Alfred was kind enough to pack me a lunch; eating in the canteen does not appeal to me, regardless of the quality of kitchen staff I employ. Lucius shrugs his shoulders before taking another mouthful of his pastrami sandwich.

"Maybe. But Tyne Corp is still way behind us. It's not like they're breathing down our necks. Statistically, we're still way out in front."

"What about their sudden upturn in stock value?"

"Nothing to worry about. It's probably a publicity stunt. It's probably a trick designed to do exactly what it's doing to our staff; make 'em nervous. Trust me, tomorrow; things will be back to normal."

"If you say so, Lucius."

It is four-fifty-nine p.m. In less than a minute, I will depart the office and go home. I use this time to gather my coat and briefcase turn off all the lights in my office and lock the door. I bid good afternoon to my secretary and other members of staff on my way out. Outside, it is raining. Alfred is standing by the Rolls-Royce with an unfurled umbrella. He crosses the sidewalk to meet me at the entrance.

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. Did you have a good day, Sir?" The old man asks when opening the rear door for me.

"Yes, thank you, Alfred."

We arrive back at the house shortly before five-thirty. We enter the house via the service entrance adjoining the garage. When I detect the aroma of fresh tomato and basil emanating from the kitchen I am surprised. I turn to the old man.

"Have you started dinner already, Alfred?" Alfred shakes his head and adopts a tired expression.

"No Sir." His deflated tone of voice prompts me to give a small, sympathetic smile.

"Is the boy being difficult again, old friend?"

"I tried to persuade him to remain in bed, Sir. Master Tim is just too stubborn. I apologize." I pat him amicably on the shoulder. The old man immediately knows from this gesture that I will deal with the boy, alone. He nods his head and changes direction, heading for the library instead. I press on to the kitchen. I find Tim hovering over the stove, stirring many pots and pans simultaneously. None of them are out of his control; the boy is an excellent organizer. I am pleased to see he has seen enough sense to wear not only long sleeved clothing, but also an apron to protect his injury. I place my case down on the breakfast bar to announce my arrival. Tim's blue eyes meet mine. He grins sheepishly.

"I know, I'm bad. Alfred tried to stop me, but..."

"But you're stubborn." I say without moving from where I'm standing. The boy shrugs.

"Runs in the family, right?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." I say with a slight smile. Tim's smile grows a little wider in reply.

"Of course not." He turns back to his cooking. I move until I am almost to his immediate right. Judging from the spaghetti he is boiling and the rich consistency of the red sauce, the boy is preparing bolognaise.

"Carbonara?" I inquire, knowing Tim will take exception to such an insult; he considers himself a highly competent chef. He is. He smirks at me.

"Funny guy. If you're not gonna help, get out of my kitchen." I raise my eyebrow.

"YOUR kitchen?" He shoots me a sideways glance and is still smiling.

"You know the rules; whoever's cooking in here controls the kitchen. Seeing as _I'm_ the chef, _I_ control the kitchen; ergo this is MY kitchen for the time being." I frown at him in mock anger. He sniggers slightly before returning to his stirring. I am glad to see he is in such high-spirits. I do not like to see him angry or upset, though it happens often. I begin to take off my suit jacket. It is now Tim's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Is the lord and master of this house actually going to help the wounded boy-soldier? I am honoured." The boy attempts to bow, but, upon finding it no doubt sore, thinks better of the action. I tap him lightly on the back of the head.

"Don't do anything stupid, Tim. What do you need?"

"The lean turkey mince out the fridge would be a good start." He claps his hands, "Hop to it." I will allow him to be so facetious, only because he is injured. He knows this a little too well. I nod my head whilst rolling up my shirt-sleeves.

"Yes, chef."

It is quarter past six in the evening. Tim and myself at eating at the dining table. His bolognaise is proving to be a contender with Alfred's own version of the dish. The boy is never keen on taking medication, especially with food. He says it ruins his taste buds. Nevertheless, I manage to convince him to take his tablets; he adopts a soured expression for some while after. Even though I discourage such immature behaviour, I find the fact Tim still has a few childish traits at seventeen somewhat charming; he is almost a man, but not quite. To cheer him up, I begin a conversation.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Okay. I got a shower this morning and did some really light training in the gym." My initial response is to sigh.

"Tim..."

"It was just stretching, Bruce. I've been laid up in bed for days; I needed to stretch my muscles back out. They were getting pretty stiff."

"You could've torn your stitches, triggered another bleed." I do not sound as indifferent as I would like. If anything, I come off as greatly concerned for the boy's safety. It is probably the reason for Tim's hand currently resting on top of mine. He squeezes it.

"I was careful. I'm fine, okay?" He tells me before taking his hand back. He must remember some of what occurred the night he sustained his injury, the way that I held him in my arms. I am glad he understands how much I care for him; it means I do not have to say much to assure him.

"Yes. I'm sure you are." I say returning to the remains of my meal. My efforts to make him happy are not proving very successful. I am fortunate that I am not the only one trying.

"What are you doing tonight?" He asks me a few moments later.

"I had planned to go out on patrol." Tim is aware that there is more I wish to say than that. He decides to coax me.

"But...?"

"But, I am fatigued by recent exertions. Without a clear objective to focus on, I do not feel like I can achieve anything further." I give up more information freely. The boy is someone I find I am at ease talking intimately with. I would not have divulged my physical frailties to Dick or Jason because I feared losing their confidence; Tim is different. Our minds operate in similar ways so I feel we have a greater understanding of one another. The boy smiles at me.

"Well, you're gonna love this then."

It is six-thirty p.m. We are in the cave. Tim is showcasing his findings from interrogating all my surveillance recordings from this morning. Not only has he alphabetised all my files by relevance and recent activity, he has also arranged a series of intelligence reports on the operations and situations I am over watching presently. In short, the boy has done all the legwork for me. It is a stunning example of his detective and logic skills, not to mention a demonstration of his knowledge of criminology. While I analyse his findings on one particular individual, Tim proceeds to perch himself on the armrest of my chair.

"Try not to hunch forward. You'll aggravate your injury."

"What happened to the other chair?"

"Alfred threw it out."

"Why?"

"Because you'd used it for target practice one too many times."

"So, can I sit in your chair?"

"No. It's my cave and I'm sitting in my cave, chef." I hear the boy puff out his cheeks and sigh. I know what he is about to suggest.

"Well, can I sit in your lap?"

"You're far too heavy. Our combined weight would break the chair."

"But you sit in it all the time in your suit. With all the Kevlar plating and utility belt ancillaries, you weigh almost forty pounds more."

"You weigh one hundred-and-sixty pounds. I weigh two-hundred-and-ten pounds. This chair cannot take stresses greater than three-hundred-and-fifty pounds."

"Bull. I'm gonna sit in your lap and 'rest' my injury." Tim begins to slide inwards.

"Tim..." Even though my tone is one of rejection to the idea, I have temporarily taken my hands from the keyboard. The boy, all one hundred-and-sixty pounds of him, settles on my lap. The chair gives no sign of discomfort at the added pressure. Tim lies back against my chest, relieving the pressure on his abdomen. He is not heavy. "Don't you think you're too old to be acting like this?"

"Don't you think you could've stopped me if you really wanted to? It's hard to be close to you. Normally I have to be on the brink of death just to get a hug so just let me enjoy this." When I issue no verbal reply, the boy gestures to the screen, "So what do you think, impressive huh?" My hands reach forward and settle back on the keyboard. Even with this obstruction, I can see the screen's display.

"Yes, an admirable job, Tim."

It is eight-thirty p.m. I should be preparing for patrol. I have sufficient intelligence and information to target the trouble lurking on Gotham's horizon and could make inroads into solving the problem before it begins. Instead I am in the lounge with Tim watching a movie. It is an old Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes feature in black and white. Holmes and Dr. Watson are currently embroiled in what has been billed as a 'thrilling murder-mystery' that will 'leave audiences gasping at its incredible twists and turns'. Although it has only been playing for twenty minutes, I have already deduced the killer's identity. The guilty party failed to destroy one vital clue, a shred of fabric left in the fireplace after the murder. The rest of the film would be unbearable to watch if I were alone. It is no fun at all watching the world's greatest detective stumble around various locales for the next hour, trying to solve a mystery you have already deduced. But I am not alone. Tim is next to me, devouring all the popcorn Alfred provided. A few minutes later I lean over.

"Who did it?" I ask the boy. He shoves a mouthful of popcorn into his mouth before answering.

"The valet. Left that shred in the fireplace."

"Should I turn it off then?"

"Nah. Let's see what Sherlock comes up with."

It is ten-seventeen p.m. Between the two of us, we solved another two mysteries, skipping two-thirds of one film because of boredom at Holmes' slow wit. I want to watch another movie with the boy, but know I have a lead to follow. Tim is empathetic. He tells me to just go. He appreciates how I feel about the mission and my duties as this city's protector. I am grateful to have such understanding people in my life. So I leave him. Before the clock strikes eleven, I am on the streets. I begin patrol duties in The Narrows, knowing that my best leads are all in Park Row thanks to Tim's notes. Regardless of my leads, I must still be thorough in other areas.

It is eleven-forty-one p.m. I have graduated to Park Row and interrogated my lead with little fanfare. I obtain the information I need to squeeze further lowlifes in the area for details. Everything is unpleasantly quiet otherwise. As I observe a gang of youths from atop of a cathedral gargoyle, Tim comes over the airwaves.

"_Wanna know who the mummy was in the tomb?" _I allow myself to smile.

"Do tell."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chess**

The hostiles number eight. The hostages number twenty. The building is locked-down. I will admit, at first glance, such a situation seems difficult to negotiate. All peaceful resolutions posed to the hostage-takers have been met with unwavering opposition. They want money, more than Gordon and his men can obtain in the time frame they have outlaid. They have said if their demand is not met in the next hour, they will execute two of the hostages. Every subsequent hour after without the money will result in another two hostages killed. By this logic, all hostages will be dead in ten hours. By Gordon's watch, two hostages are scheduled to lose their lives in the next ten minutes. They will not. I will not allow it.

The building the hostages are being held in is Gotham Central Network, the television station and local media outlet, located in the Upper West Side of the city. I am familiar with the structural layout, having been one of the main benefactors in its renovation last April. It possesses both a building-wide ventilation system with several key access points and a stairwell leading from the ground floor to the roof. I did not insist on incorporating such features into its design, but in this situation, they will prove invaluable. Standing in the alleyway adjacent to the building in one of the black spots for its CCTV cameras, I locate solid purchase and fire my grapnel.

Once I have reached the rooftop, I hang off its edge and switch to thermal imaging. As expected, due to lack of manpower, they have not stationed a sentry at the door. They have left the duty to a camera. Using an electronic jammer would negate their view of my approach, but would also alert them of a possible coup. With time ticking down, I must act. The camera is in a fixed position and this limits its field of vision. I therefore shimmy along the edge of the building until I am at its side. Pressing myself against the ground, I proceed to leopard-crawl beneath it and am confident my presence has not been witnessed. The door is locked, but easily gives way with a simple lock pick. A moment later, I am inside.

Gaining entry to the building has taken almost two minutes, twenty-six seconds longer than I had initially anticipated. This is unfortunate, but unavoidable. I decide to speed my progress using a trick I have implemented once before. Clipping the electronic jammer to my utility belt and amplifying its power by way of a minor internal tweak, I jump over the railing and plummet downward. By doing this, any camera I pass will automatically be blind for exactly half-a-second before returning to normal. This effect is caused by the speed I am travelling at; if I were to fall slower, the camera feeds would be incapacitated for longer. That would be suspicious, but a sudden blink could be any number of things, much less me.

The suit cushions the majority of the impact when I hit the ground and also muffles the sound. Relaxing as I fall has reduced injury risk to negligible levels and am I soon back to a standing position and entering the foyer. More cameras, but with greater scope for evasion. I avoid their fields of vision with significant ease whilst simultaneously establishing the location of both the hostages and the ventilation access point. The ventilation grate is against the far wall, covered from view by a table. It provides perfect cover for prizing the grate off its hinges. The hostages are two floors above me, accounting for the spatial differential registered by the thermal imaging software built into the cowl. As I enter the ventilation shaft, I am aware I cannot follow this to their location.

I follow the network of tunnels to the elevator shaft. From this point, the task is far simpler than it would appear. I merely need to scale the shaft to the second floor, force the doors open and clear the room. It is something of a formality. When I incapacitate all eight hostiles in less than a minute, I am not surprised. Despite their automatic weapon systems, night-vision goggles and discipline, they were still no match for me. My usual ploy of detonating smoke grenades, followed by a full frontal assault proved a sufficient enough combination of scare and diversionary tactics to unnerve and divide their firepower. Two were rendered unconscious with batarangs, four with nerve strikes and the remaining two with nothing but my right fist. I am impressed with the new Kevlar plating on the glove's knuckles; it gives that much needed extra force to each and every hit. I find the hostages are all safe and alive, sustaining only minor injuries during their captivity.

"Eight minutes to resolve a situation we've been working for three hours." Jim remarks after all suspects are in custody and all hostages are being transported to hospital for examination, "That's got to be a new record, even for you."

"I could not have handled the situation so easily without your assistance, Jim. If your men had not given me the necessary reconnaissance on the building and hostage-takers, things could have been a lot worse."

"Thank you for the mention. We can handle things from here. If anything comes up we'll be in touch."

"Goodnight, Jim."

"The same to you."

It is almost two a.m. I have returned to the cave. My transition back to civilian life is seamless: the car is ready for further deployment; the suit is back in the armoury alongside all weapons and ancillaries, the utility belt has been restocked and all outstanding data concerning tonight's situation has been inputted onto the central computer. The entire process has taken me less than thirty minutes. I am now in slacks and a sweater as I cross the darkness of the library. I am preparing to scale the grand staircase when noise from the main lounge diverts my attention. Given Alfred's dislike of television – he once referred to it as an idiot's lantern – the viewer can only be Tim. When I push open the door, I am proven correct.

The boy is wrapped in his duvet, but sat up on the couch. He appears to be watching an international chess tournament on some obscure satellite channel. Judging by the picture quality and general sharpness of the transmission, he has made some improvements to facilitate better viewing. Aside from the light the television is generating, the room is shrouded in darkness. I immediately turn the main light on.

"Don't watch television in the dark, Tim; you'll strain your eyes."

The boy looks at me from over his shoulder. "How was patrol?" He asks, ignoring my last remark. I cross the room and stand next to the couch.

"Largely uneventful. What are you doing up?" He gestures to the mug he is holding cupped in his hands. The aroma is that of warm milk.

"Can't sleep. Thought this would help."

"I see. In that case, what is your reason for watching a chess tournament? Surely watching such a spectacle cannot help but force your brain into action."

The boy indicates the space next to him. He wants me to see something. I oblige and sit down. Taking control of his mug by the handle, he points at the screen with one hand. "I think this guy can win the match in no less than ten moves. Am I right?" I quickly scan the board and position of all pieces when it is displayed in an overhead camera shot.

"No. He can win in nine moves." I say. Tim nods in agreement.

"So I must be tired. Watching this is working."

"So go to bed." I suggest only for the boy to wave the mug in my face.

"After I finish this."

We sit together and the watch the next nine moves in silence. When I am proven correct with my calculations, I hear Tim smirk. I look over at him and he returns my gaze.

"Your brain never stops working does it?" He says with a smile before taking another sip of his drink.

"I'm certain were you not so tired, you would've guessed correctly as well, Tim." The boy looks back to the television and slumps back against the couch.

"Hopefully." He responds before stifling a yawn. "Jeez, I'm getting pretty sleepy now. Chess is kinda boring if you're not playing, isn't it?" He adds, sinking further into the folds of his duvet. He is beginning to resemble a caterpillar in a chrysalis.

"I would think that is true of most spectator sports, Tim." We watch a further four minutes of the broadcast, seeing the victor collect his trophy in the presentation ceremony before the boy asks me something.

"So what actually happened on patrol?" When I look over at him, he looks drowsy.

"It's something of a long story, Tim." The boy responds by resting his head against my side and closing his eyes.

"Great. I love bedtime stories. Let's hear it from the top; how many terrorists were there?" He inquires whilst adjusting his position to make him more comfortable. I consider whether I should begin or not while taking the mug from the boy's hand and placing it on the floor. Eventually I relent, moving my arm so Tim can rest his head on my chest. He proceeds to burrow his head in the gap I have created and then settles. "You were saying?" He says to prompt me. My arm wraps round his shoulder before my hand reaches up to stroke his hair. I begin:

"There were eight of them…"

I manage to get as far as infiltrating the building before I am sure Tim is asleep. I stop talking.

"So, after the security cameras, then what?" The boy says without warning. I am very surprised he is still partially listening. Tim's ability to skirt the line between sleep and consciousness is impressive; despite being virtually asleep, he is still able to absorb information and hold a conversation.

"What do you think I did next?" I say.

"Was there a ventilation shaft?"

"Yes?"

"You tore off the grate and using the system to move around. Carry on."

It continues in this fashion for some time until I am absolutely positive the boy is actually asleep. Fortunately I have finished so, even if he were awake, I would have nothing further to say. I gently slip away from him, laying him across the length of the couch and turn to go to bed.

"Don't leave me here." Tim says in an almost incomprehensible tone, his face half-mashed into the cushions. "Take me to bed." When I physically pick him up, I cannot believe that I am the world's greatest crime fighter. It seems ludicrous that someone of my reputation is unable to refuse the orders of a seventeen-year-old boy who is practically comatose on the couch. It seems even more bizarre to find that I do not care. Carrying Tim is like carrying a sack of flour; I do not notice the added weight at all, even when scaling the stairs or opening his bedroom door. I put him and his covers back on the bed.

"I'm making you breakfast tomorrow." Tim mutters to me whilst turning away from me, "making you the best damn breakfast in the world." I smile at him even though he cannot see it. He really is a sweet boy and I am lucky to have him in my company. Tonight has been an interesting night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sundae**

Sometimes I think I must be crazy. I have to be; there's no other explanation for my actions. I got stabbed less than a fortnight ago. It was bad enough to keep me in bed for a week. Most people would not go out at night after something like that. Most people would be scared of it happening again and do anything to avoid putting themselves in that situation again...

But not me.

At the moment, I'm surrounded by a gang of at least ten knife-wielding thugs, all of them eager to know the colour of my insides; it's just a typical night in Gotham City. I should be afraid, but I'm not. I should run, but I won't. I must be crazy. Enough philosophy though, Timmy boy, it's time for action. The first opponent to try his hand is clearly braver and the most assertive of the group, maybe even the leader. He swings at me with a back-handed motion, keeping the blade nice and horizontal in his hand. I dodge the first swipe, ensuring I do not step backwards but side-step. The second swipe follows in quick succession and again, I dodge out of its path. On the third roll of the dice, I make my move. Halting the motion of his arm takes both my arms, my block having to be a stronger hit. The hand nearest his wrist seizes control of it while my other hand jars his elbow, forcing it to bend at a ninety-degree angle. Driving forward with my momentum and jerking his elbow past his shoulder joint gives an audible pop and an audible scream. I then deliver a side-kick to his abdomen, ending his night early. The others converge to avenge their fallen comrade. Big mistake.

All of them are angry and scared at the same time. They aren't thinking clearly and they have no collective strategy. These factors mean they are dead meat. It takes me only eight moves to put them all to sleep, my collapsible staff lending a well-needed hand to proceedings. Why did I need to confront these lowlifes? It's partly because they're responsible for selling drugs to kids in playgrounds and have been linked to twelve drug-related deaths in the past four months. But it's mostly because the boss told me to. Whatever he says, I follow. Seeing as my boss is a giant bat and I'm a bird, I must be crazy. Nobody sane would take orders from a guy dressed as a bat. But I do and I do it dressed in tights. Gotta be crazy.

I alerted the GCPD before I engaged these guys in a brawl. I told them to give me five minutes and then dispatch a car. I wait five minutes and then two cars show up at once. I don't run and hide; that's _his_ style, not mine. Weirdly, Jim Gordon gets out of one car's passenger seat. I wasn't expecting the commissioner to inspect the scene for himself. He's a nice guy, always treats me with respect despite my age. He waves at me before gesturing to the uniformed officers with him to clean-up. He wanders over once the first of the scumbags are being loaded into the back.

"I suppose we'll have to call for another car...and maybe an ambulance." Gordon says lighting his pipe. He doesn't sound concerned; he knows I practice restraint. "I take it you've got the necessary evidence to implicate these dirtballs?" I gesture at them.

"They're all carrying concealed weapons, bags of pills, cocaine and ecstasy. I haven't removed any of it." He nods in approval before reaching out and patting me briefly on the shoulder.

"Thanks for the help, son." He says before taking a drag on his pipe. He exhales before speaking again. "How are you feeling anyway? Your friend in the cowl said you'd been unwell recently. Nothing serious I hope?" I can hear the concern in Gordon's voice. The man's got a heart of gold. I shrug my shoulders.

"I took a fall. But I'm okay now."

"Good, glad to hear it. Where is he tonight?"

"He's got business in the Bowery district. Tying up loose ends, you know...the usual."

"I see. Does that mean you're pulling a late one round his route?"

"No later than normal. What are you doing here, Sir? Don't you ever sleep?"

"Not in this city, son. Not in this city. We can finish up here; you can shoot off if you like." I usually like to disappear on cops, like _he_ does. But I won't do that to Gordon; a man like him deserves a proper good-bye. I nod my head in gratitude.

"Thank you. See you 'round commissioner." I fire my grapnel to the rooftops and a moment later, I'm gone from his view. One day I'll teach Bruce the value of proper manners. Not today though. Because I found those guys so quick, I've still got hours left on patrol. I think about joining Bruce in the Bowery, but think better of it. He wanted to handle matters alone down there. And he wanted me to handle everything else tonight. After diffusing three potential rapes, a burglary and an attempted assault, taking down close to forty very nasty men with an obvious dislike of teenagers in the process, I'm starting to think I've been fleeced by him. My first night back on the job feels more like a medieval gauntlet than standard routine. Maybe I'm just out of practice. Or maybe it's because my abs are still a little sore from Alfred removing the stitches; either way, my night's finally over.

Using the bike, I get back to the cave before three in the morning. As usual, I arrive back before him. And, as usual, there's no point hanging around until he gets back; he could be gone for hours yet. Typical Bruce solves one problem and then goes looking for another; the man just never wants to stop working. In some ways, you admire his dedication. Mostly though you remind yourself how lucky you are not to think like him; every day is a rainy day to him. So, I take off my costume; drop it into Alfred's laundry pile (he's started keeping a basket in the cave), change into normal clothes and then head up to the house. Alfred is waiting in the library. I roll my eyes.

"I told you not to bother waiting up for me, Alfred. A guy who works as hard as you needs his sleep."

"A very touching sentiment, Master Tim, but a lad like you requires some attention given that you are returning from injury."

"I'm fine. I'm just..."

"A little sore?"

"Heard this one before, huh Alfred?"

"And many times before that. Bearing that in mind, I have taken the liberty of drawing you a bath."

"I was just going to take a shower."

"But now you're going to take a bath, aren't you?"

I smirk at him, nodding my head. "Yes, mommy." Alfred does not appreciate my remark, giving me a hard stare eerily similar to Bruce. It makes me wonder who copied who? When I get in the bathroom, I have to admit the bathtub does look very inviting. The water's kind of purple and stinks of lavender, but that only means Alfred's been nice enough to add half-a-bottle of muscle relaxant for me. He knows I like lavender better than the lemon crud Bruce enjoys. When I test the water by jamming my hand in it, I nearly melt; nice and hot. I know guys are supposed to be all manly and not like scented bathwater, but we all secretly love stuff like that. And, once the door's closed, who's gonna know anyway?

I get in slow to savour the sensations. This feels so good right now. I let the water envelop me until only my head is above it and barely at that. I am soooo relaxed…

KNOCK KNOCK

I jerk my head up from the back of the tub; did I fall asleep? I look down at my wristwatch on the bathroom floor. It's ten past four in the morning; I've been sleeping for nearly an hour.

"Yeah?"

"Tim, It's Bruce. If you're done indulging yourself with scented baths, I could really use your input on this investigation." Is he kidding? First, how does he know what I'm doing in here and, secondly, theorizing at four in the morning? I know it's the weekend but come on!

"I'm kinda tired, Bruce. Can it wait until tomorrow maybe?"

"I understand, Tim. I guess I'll have to eat Alfred's hot fudge sundaes on my own in the cave. Sorry to have distur-"

"You're evil! You know that? Evil!" Having a dad know all your embarrassing secrets and weaknesses is one thing, but having the world's greatest detective and crime fighter know everything about you is ten-times worst; I don't have to say a word and he can still figure me out like a puzzle book that's already been solved. Hot fudge is my biggest weakness, especially when I'm low on sugar. Who blackmails their son into working homicide investigations with them? All I can say is there better be fudge; if this is a trick, I will hit him.

"Happy?" Bruce asks as I sit in his chair in the cave, a colossal sundae in my hand. I take a bite and try not to look like I'm having an orgasm; nobody makes dessert like Alfred, nobody. I shrug my shoulders.

"It's okay. What do you need my input on?" He gestures to the current computer display. The screen has four separate homicide reports showcased. I scan them briefly for pertinent information. All Caucasian ethnicity, all middle-aged, all with residential addresses listed in The Bowery area. All four victims were killed with different calibre bullets targeting different areas of the body; one to the head, two to the body and one to the heart. No correlation on ballistics and no pattern suggest it is not the work of a serial killer. The victims share no common relationships or have any associations with one another. I take another bite of the sundae and shrug.

"Domestic disputes?" I offer to be clapped on the back of the head.

"Sensible answers or I'm taking the sundae away." Bruce informs me. I hold on to the glass tighter and re-scan the reports.

Three of the victims had never been married and the one who had was separated from his wife. No help. All four had prior criminal charges levied against them, mostly petty theft, one count of drug possession…hello. All four had a history of cocaine addiction.

"Cocaine trafficking, right? These individuals probably stole some product and got what was coming to them." My revised reply is met with approval by the big guy. He nods his head.

"Better. The question is why were the traffickers so desperate to silence these people? They're certainly not the kind of people who could pose a significant threat to the drug trade in Gotham. And it is also not difficult to cover such an insignificant loss of product; the victims had not stolen more than a sample of the drug according to my sources."

"Maybe it's a new product, something only available from one dealer. You don't want people figuring out the secret and ruining your angle, right?" Bruce leans on the back of the chair.

"That is what I assumed. However, I can find no evidence of a new product on the street; two of these murders occurred almost a month ago. The product should be marketable now."

"Refinement. Probably don't want the stuff to kill people on the first hit; want at least a few sales out of the junkies."

"Hnn. Give me a bite of your sundae."

"No. It's not my fault if you ate all yours."

"I believe I'm entitled to some more."

"Why's that?"

"Because I saved your life."

"Are my thanks not enough for the brave knight? You want to take my sundae as well?"

"Just a bite, Tim."

I sigh and reluctantly pass my sundae and the spoon back to him. "Don't you dare finish it all." I warn him while scrutinising the reports further. He hands it back…with some left. I nod in approval before finishing it off. "No more for you, fat boy."

We continue working for the next half-an-hour. Using my intelligence reports, we shortlist a group of drug distributors operating exclusively out of The Bowery area and concentrate on those whose main source of income is cocaine-related. Amazingly, there aren't that many. Only two names stand out: Michael Duncan and Jerry Sellers, both big players in the narcotics racket in Gotham and both with a spider web of connections to other illicit ventures. Bruce and I have dealt with Sellers before, putting him on trial for murder and drug trafficking raps on three separate occasions; he managed to beat them all with jury tampering and some other underhanded tactics. At the moment, the guy is underground. According to the computer archives, Bruce had encounters with Duncan during Jason's tenure as Robin. They apparently collapsed his little empire twice inside of three years, despite Duncan's attempts to freeze them out. The case files say Jason's role in the investigations was crucial, one of the few times Bruce explicitly praises my predecessor.

After a short argument that almost degenerates into a debate class exercise where we argue the merits of each candidate, Bruce decides Sellers is the more likely of the two. Seeing as I was arguing on behalf of Sellers, I win. Following a sketchy plan of action for the next few days, we call it a night.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce inquires when we're climbing the stairs. I nod.

"Okay. Glad to be back on the streets again." I pause before adding, "Thanks for the sundae."

"Thank you for the input. It has helped move this case along tremendously."

"You could've figured it all out on your own."

"Perhaps, but I would not have enjoyed myself quite as much." That actually means a lot coming from him. Since the adoption and everything, Bruce is a lot more open with his feelings than before. Of course, the majority of the time he still keeps them to himself, but it's always special when he offers something up for me to savour. I don't say anything in response to his last statement. It's obvious how I feel and how he feels about me. When we reach my door, he pats me on the shoulder before walking off down the corridor to his own room.

"Goodnight Tim."

"Night Bruce."


End file.
